The girl who cried wolf sarcastically.

wherever you are
it’s beautiful
like a heartbeat
like a bird song
like a coyote howl
like a full moon on a clear night
or wild like the fields we ran through as kids
I can smell the lilacs
feel the sticky sap of the pine trees as we climb up them
I can feel a warm breeze against my sun warmed face
hear your laughter just a branch or two above me – your ropey legs are taller and stronger than mine – you always win our races
I can see how your eyes grow so blue when you smile
see the bright red cheeks you get when you don’t wear sunscreen
I can feel your hand clasped in mine as we sit and watch a hot summer day – all the reds & oranges blend together to paint the sky in light
Wherever you are
I’m sure it’s beautiful
& the wavelength resonates in me
lifting me up
while you are away

Like this:

woke up today with a hole in my heart
the size of the universe
it’s a veritable black hole
sucking in all the good things
then dissolving them all
in the abyssal kiss
that makes hope no more

making love to misery
right down to my core
on shattered memories

perception is a faulty thing
& looking back
it’s probably caffeine withdrawal
serotonin depleted
or brain needing too much
energy to function
and sending out cortisone
flooding through my veins
until I hate every single thing
that comes near me

I still hear the resonance
of a soul who’s not here
so faint as to be a whisper
an echo
a ripple of the original source

no matter what I tell my heart
I’m looking
goddamn searching
every single second
while I’m alive
breathing in that ghostly harmony
and wishing to collide back into that missing wave
loss as strong as it every was

what’s up? They ask
nothing. I respond
as just underneath the surface
my waters roil
by a wind I cannot control

makes every moment precious
I dont want to waste them
and we always waste them
makes me want to pull away
from all these people half living
their lives away

I’m tired of tiptoeing through the games all the knaves play
so cleverly

isn’t there someone out there who’s been through this before?

doesn’t anyone understand that life is so short?

doesn’t anyone seek a beautiful moment anymore?

Woke up with a hole in my heart I cannot fill. Not in this 24 hour cycle at least. Maybe tomorrow I’ll wake up with hope in my arms.

Like this:

Every now and then I’m a cryer. It happens despite my best intentions not to bawl. Lately it’s mostly to do with missing my cousin who’s died. Every now and then it hits me hard for no real reason. I guess that’s how grief goes. A bit uncharted in emotions.

We’ve been talking of planting a tree over some sort of biodegradable urn. It fits my cousin to a tee. A beautiful idea: really, it is. But I burst into tears in my room. A couple of sorts sobs. Not soft enough for the intrepid gamer downstairs. Not soft enough that there didn’t come the clobbering steps of a determined Goo.

Up the stairs comes my son. I wipe the tears from my eyes. He opens the bedroom door and climbs up into bed. He rests his head on my shoulder and kind of body hugs me.

He’s wise. So wise is my Goo. He asks me if I’m okay. I tell him yes. He kisses my forehead. Points at my face and tells my that’s just silly. I nod and say yeah Mommy’s silly.

He says are you mad? I try to lie and say no Mommy is happy. I try to make sure he doesn’t worry about a tiny burst of tears.

But the Goo isn’t having it. Not happy he says forcefully. Not happy he repeats.

He’s right and I tell him I’m okay but I’m sad. I miss my cousin.

He smiles. He says Mommy is okay. Mommy is sads. Kisses my cheek. Hugs me dearly. Satisfied that everything is alright, he tells me see you later and goes back down to his gaming.

My son may be autistic but he’s smarter emotionally than I will probably ever be. He’s not going to bottle up his emotions. And he sure as hell isn’t going to let anyone around him be too proud to admit they’re crying neither.

The Goo is always surprising me. He’s so sensitive to everyone around him. Especially me. I’m damn lucky to have him around me. I’m damn proud to be his Mommy.

Like this:

Always wanted to return to the original piece and rework it. I had a dream a few years that inspired me to write the original poem. Always felt that the old piece was lacking something. Try as I might, couldnt seem to get it down any better until now. So here you are. Xoxoxo Nette

You are the dreamer
You are the dream
You are the bleakness
You are the bleeding
You are the lack lusture colour
You are the aftermath of this scene
& You are also the cause

Your feet glide through the air
Just barely touching ground
Your toes just barely marked by blood
Limbs feel heavy
A great weight settles in

There comes a slight breeze
As something within you stirs
Rage lights your eyes
Outrage close by
Something within you dies

Recognition begins to slice into the illusion you’ve so long held
You are the soldier
You are the women
You are the men
You are the children
You are the slain
You are the vengence

Weep for the destruction
Weep for the flowers crushed underneath
Weep for the weapon
Weep for the lifeless eyes
You are caught in rapture
By the haunting tune coming from the piano
Played by the soldier’s hands

He says: “This is how it must be. This is how it ends.”

Your shake your head
Tears streaming to waterfalls
Rushing down your neck
Towards your heart
On fire
No water can quench
You are a soul in pain
You whisper: “I don’t understand.”

The soldier beckons for you to sit
As his arm goes around your shoulder
You both begin to play
Requiem

He leans in closely
You kiss his forehead
He brings his hands to your face
His eyes lock yours
You look away
A voice calls from far away: “Wake up dreamer.”

Author’s incredibly ramble note: I’ve been encouraged to post the original Moe saves TV as it was when I first wrote it a thousand years ago. This is despite my strongest urges to kill it in the archives of a wax paper lined shelf to gather dust forever. Stepping stones be damned.

Welcome to the only time I will likely present you with the original edition of a Moe piece only because some of the magic is lost when you show people rougher versions.

This particular Moe story was written sometime in 2006. I believe, but I’m guessing, that it was written around the middle of the series as it was. 2006… Almost ten blasted years ago. Makes me feel really ugh. Old. To have been “working on the craft” all these years.

Looking back, I’ve come a damn long way. My standards are much higher now. What I produce is better. And that comes from writing every spare moment I could get. Writing even when I knew what was going down on paper was complete shite. Failed projects and incomplete pieces are all practice. Or as the painters put it: “my early works”. Kind way of saying: this piece sucks, but without it we wouldn’t have the later works. Ha.

I’m telling you, never giving up has been the key to getting better. Duh, I know. But you can’t expect to vomit up a masterpiece first time out. Not second time out. Sure as hell not third. Probably not even the 1,666th time out. Simply working hard. Every single day. Gets you that tiny step closer. Hones your skills, sharpens the brain.

It’s funny how my techniques and habits have pretty much remained the same. I still rely on sugar and caffeine to get into the ridiculous mood needed to project Moe onto the page. I still put on my headphones and blast the music loud enough to block out the external world: (when I’m in the zone I don’t even hear the music anymore). I still like to hand write Moe stories. And I still write the story in fragments as ideas come to me. I only piecing it all together in chronological order at the end. I’ve always written the dialogue first, and added the descriptors afterwards.

What’s different now, really, is I take more time to flesh out a scene. And I try hard to pay attention to the pacing of a story. Which, as you’ll discover below, was not much of a concern of mine back in the day. I also don’t like to rush an ending anymore. Was kind of a signature of mine, particularly when I was a kid. (Yes. I’ve been writing that long. A Star Trek episode in a screenplay format which I wrote in grade six is the first fictional piece I can recall writing.)

Wow! What an infodump of an italicized introduction you neither needed nor wanted. ROFLCOPTER. I’m a little evil sometimes. Xoxoxo.

So, yeah. The year was 2006 and here we go!

Moe saves TV (the original)

I awoke to hear the Wind threatening my electrical equipment that lay near the half-open balcony door. Alfred my feline butler/bodyguard/slave was his usual vigilant self curled up on the floor with Gorilla Bear. His snores were competing with the Wind — a threat the Wind wasn’t about to take idly.

“I’m going to destroy your television!” screamed the Wind. He cackled a rather poor imitation of a maniacal laugh: “Mwhahaha.”

“Like Hell you are!” I screamed right back minus the puny laughter.

“A little rain will fix your T.V. for good! You’ll never watch another episode of Law & Order S.V.U again! Which is too bad really considering it is a good show dealing with complex issues our modern society really needs to see more of.”

“Alfie!!!” That cat just wouldn’t wake up.

“Alfred can’t save you now! No one can! Nothing can stop me now!” There was another of the Wind’s cackling.

Desperate situations call for desperate measures done by desperate superheroes. Though I didn’t think Batman could reach Ottawa from Gotham City in time. “Give me a second, will ya?”

“Evil winds wait for no man!”

“Good thing I’m not a man and that you’re fond of giving lame ass self-serving evil monologues. Without me you’ve got no audience.”

“Ah dammit! Why did I have to pick the apartment with the sarcastic plant?”

“That’s Mr. Palmtree to you asswipe.” I dug out last New Year’s Mardi Gras mask and shifted it through my green hair. It rested a little cockeyed but the effect was enough. “This calls for Mr. Tequila!”

“Oh no!!!!” screamed the wind. “Wait! Mr. Who?”

“Mr. Tequila.”

“And what exactly are your special powers? Making alcohol appear out of nowhere?”

“Why? Don’t you think I have any? That this is just some New Year’s Mardi Gras mask? I’ll have you know, sir, I have powerful… laser beam eyes.”

“I didn’t realize plants even had eyes.”

“Well they do, I mean I do. Just try me. Just you try raining in here.”

The rain swirled in threateningly close to the power bar. My whole life with T.V. flashed before my eyes. Cold winter nights cuddled up to it’s radiating warm glow while it shared the adventures of Hank and the rest of his dudes in Corner Gas. Or the one time I ever cried (one tear that’s it) when the mouse got crushed in the Green Mile. I mean that mouse was going to be a star in his own little mousy circus. Such a wasted talent. Sniff.

My devotion to T.V. and all its glories built up until all I saw was red. Then the red flew out of my eyes and attack every last frickin’ raindrop until that had all evaporated.

“Blast! This is not the end of this, Mr. Tequila! I will avenge!”

“Avenge what?”

“What?”

“Well you said ‘I will avenge’ but you didn’t say what you were going to avenge. Like the rain drops or your lost dignity or the fact that a plant in a homemade mask with pretend laser eyes defeated you.”

“Never mind! I’ll just be back.”

T.V. thanked me for saving her life once that annoying loud mouth had left. She turned on to a tropical commercial about Tequila. It was 3 a.m. and I was in heaven. That is until Nette walked in with her peppy Asian boyfriend Don. She ran right over to the still open balcony door and swore. “It’s been open this whole time and even with that crazy wind and rain outside there’s not even a drop in here. Not one single drop.” She looked as though she was about to cry. “I made you drive me all the way downtown at 3 a.m. to save my TV from rain that doesn’t exist! And why the hell is the TV on?”